"Such sisterly devotion," murmured Emma.
"Oh, I don't mind," was Sara's cheerful comment. "I've already packed my sweater and two dresses in Julia's trunk. You'd better leave them there, Julia, I haven't an inch of room left in my trunk to squeeze them into. It is already jammed so full that you'll have to sit on the lid when I get ready to lock it."
"Stung!" was Julia's inelegant comment. "This is what comes of being a twin. I think I'd better hurry and gobble up the small trunk space that is left me; otherwise I may have to carry a large part of my wardrobe home in a bundle." Dread of such a contingency sent her fleeing up the stairs in hot pursuit of her own welfare, oblivious to the pleasantries which Emma and Sara called after her as she ran.
Seated around the long library table in the living-room, the correspondence party made an attractive picture as, with earnest faces, they bent themselves to the arduous task of letter-writing. With the exception of Grace, all present were soon hard at work. One hand resting lightly on a sheet of the monogrammed paper which Elfreda had provided in profusion, with her other hand Grace nervously gripped her fountain pen. Should she or should she not write to Tom? Although she owed the usual amount of letters to various correspondents, she now thought only of writing to the man for whose strange silence she could not account. It was Tom's place to write her. She had answered his first letter. Yet she could not believe that carelessness was responsible for his silence. Something must have happened to him. But what? She knitted her brows in an agony of indecision, then giving her pen an energetic shake that betokened definite purpose, she began:
"Dear Tom:
"It is now over a week since last I heard from you. What——"
The loud ring of the doorbell caused her to break off abruptly the sentence she had begun. With that curious intuition which sometimes manifests itself unbidden, she was seized with the startled conviction that the bell had conveyed the news of an arrival important to herself. Listening with an anxiety she could not yet understand, she heard a man's deep tones raised in inquiry. Then came the lighter voice of the maid who had answered the door. Then——
"Miss Harlowe," the maid had entered the living-room and addressed her, "there's a special delivery letter come for you. Will you please sign for it?"
"Thank you, Alice." Grace sprang to her feet and hurried into the hall. The messenger handed her a letter and shoved his book toward her, indicating the place for her signature. Hastily signing and returning the book, Grace dismissed the man, and sank to the oak settee in the hall, her heart thumping wildly. She had already recognized the handwriting on the envelope, not as Tom's familiar flowing hand, but as the spidery, wavering script of Mrs. Gray. With trembling fingers she tore open the envelope and read:
"Dear Grace: